


Stasis

by spurious



Category: Kanjani8 (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen, community: je_otherworlds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-26
Updated: 2012-06-26
Packaged: 2017-11-08 13:53:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/443875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spurious/pseuds/spurious
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He waits.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stasis

**Author's Note:**

  * For [imifumei](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=imifumei).



> This fic is inspired by Ryo's solo song "Scarecrow" and the video that played along with it during the concert tour. Thanks to pinkpapyrus for the handholding ♥ Written for je_otherworlds 2012 ([original post here](http://je-otherworlds.livejournal.com/35772.html)).

Every day is the same. He wakes up with the sunrise, cooks himself breakfast: miso soup and rice, some soy sauce poured over it, followed up with a strong, hot cup of coffee. While he eats, he looks out the window. The old, worn glass obscures the view, so in the summer if the weather's nice it looks like a smear of blue on top of a smear of green, and in the winter it's all white. Today it's gray. He can hear the rain beating against the roof of the small house. As he heaps another helping of rice into his mouth, he tries to remember what season it is. Is this the kind of rain that will chill through his bones, make him feel like he's never, ever going to get warm and dry; or is it the summer rain that he almost enjoys, the warm downpour that will mix with his sweat and make him feel almost cleansed? He has to look at the calendar to remember: it's June, the middle of the rainy season. He should have remembered, he thinks, because he's got the beginning of a sunburn on the back of his neck, the skin itchy and irritated.

When his breakfast is done, he washes out the dishes methodically—at first he'd let them pile up, but after a while the stacks of dishes seemed to mock him, a constant reminder that there's no one around to help out, so he'd gotten in the habit of washing up as soon as he was done. Keeping the place clean is just another part of the waiting. He can't let it get run-down, or turn undesirable. Everything has to stay the same.

With the dishes washed, dried, and put away into the cupboard, joining the other pieces from the matched set, he returns to the bedroom and opens his side of the closet, taking out the clothes he'll wear. He's got a very small wardrobe, and it barely changes from season to season. Because it's summer, he'll wear short sleeves. He gets dressed quickly, the rustling of fabric muted by the sound of the rain. It's coming down hard, droplets hitting the roof and the windows, but it doesn't deter him. Even when there'd been a typhoon last fall, he'd gotten dressed and gone outside to wait. Even three years ago, when he'd gotten sick and could barely get himself out of bed, he'd gotten dressed and gone outside to wait. He doesn't get sick anymore; he thinks maybe he's moved past it. He's not sure he even needs to eat, anymore, but he does it out of habit.

He pulls on his shoes at the door, sitting down in the entryway to knot the laces. When he opens the door, he's immediately hit in the face by drops of rain. He narrows his eyes, pulling the door shut behind him. He squints out at the field, watching the tall grass as it's blown back and forth in the wind. The rain soaks through his thin t-shirt quickly, the fabric clinging wet and clammy to his skin. His hair slicks against his forehead, a few of the longer strands making dark points in front of his eyes. When was the last time he cut his hair? He doesn't remember.

As the time has gone on, he started to forget things about himself. The small details were the first to go, little things like what elementary school he went to or what his first apartment looked like, but by now, he's forgotten almost everything: he knows his name is Ryo, and he knows he's waiting. He knows what he has to do every day, and he knows that it's very important that he keeps waiting here. He doesn't know where _here_ is, has long forgotten what it is that he's waiting for, but he thinks maybe when it comes, or when it happens, it will bring him back to whoever he once was. He knows he has all the time in the world to wait, and he knows that nothing can stop him. He thinks he must have been a very determined person.

While he waits, he walks around the grounds of the farm. Usually he doesn't walk to the end of the field, since he knows there's nothing on the other side of the fence, but today he loses his bearings a little bit, caught off-guard by the intensity of the rain, and soon he finds himself standing in front of the fence. He reaches out, running his fingers across the rough, weathered wood post in front of him, and like a shock, he has a flash of memory.

He built this fence. Years ago, he built this fence when he was happy, before he started waiting. He remembers chopping the wood, he remembers digging the holes for each post, painstakingly settling them into the ground and linking them together with wire. He built this fence long before he knew it would be what holds him in.

He pulls his hand away, feeling like he's been burned, and the memory recedes almost immediately. It's so far out of his grasp now that he's not even sure it had really happened. It doesn't matter anyway, he thinks, turning away and walking back in the direction of the house.

When he's completed his walk around the grounds, making sure to steer clear of the fence, he takes his place at the outskirts of the field. It's hard to tell on a sunless day like this one, but he should have about six more hours of waiting to do. He stands still, feeling almost rooted into the ground as the rain and wind rage around him. The time used to pass slowly, but he's gotten so used to the waiting that it's become easy to clear his head, to let the time wash over him, and before he knows it, the small amount of light there had been is fading, and it's time to go inside.

He strips off his wet clothes and hangs them in the kitchen to dry, then makes his way into the bathroom, where starts filling the tub for a bath. Despite the warmth of the day, the wind had become a bit chilly, and the bath is a pleasant change from the cold that had been seeping steadily through his wet clothes.

In the bath, he thinks of the fence. The memory is already hazy by now, blurred by the hours of standing thoughtlessly in the rain, but it still makes something in his stomach twinge just a little bit. If touching the fence was enough to give him back that one memory, he thinks, what could be beyond it? Maybe, somewhere, is the answer to all of his waiting. Maybe he could find out why he's here. Maybe he could bring all of this to an end.

Before he realizes it, his bathwater has gone cold. He gets up, pulling the plug on the drain, and wraps a towel around himself. As he dries off and pulls on pajamas, he keeps his mind studiously empty. He doesn't eat dinner—breakfast is the only meal he still has in his routine—so he's in bed soon after. Falling asleep is easy, the silence and darkness lulling him into dreamless oblivion.

He wakes up with the sunrise, feeling a little stiff and cold, but once he gets moving it dissipates. He makes breakfast, motions mechanical, and sits down at the thick wooden table, dishes in front of him. He murmurs something before he eats, words he's long forgotten the meaning of, and lifts his eyes to look out the window.

Through the frosty, warped glass, he sees white. His eyes track to the calendar on the wall, which still reads June, then to the window. It's white, definitely, the telltale white of midwinter. He blinks a few times. How long had he spent in the bathtub last night? How long has he been waiting? How long has the calendar said it's June?

For the first time, he tries to remember things that have happened since he started waiting. He tries to remember turning pages on the calendar. He finds that he can't. He looks at the calendar more closely, squinting from across the room. There's writing on it. He gets up, leaving his bowl of rice half-eaten, his soup starting to cool in the chill morning air.

There's a day in the middle of the month circled, something scrawled on it, then something in a different handwriting, followed up by a heart mark. He blinks, trying to will the words into making sense: he hasn't read anything in so long. He stands and stares at the words, waiting for them to mean something, to jog something in his memory. He even touches them, tracing the outlines with his fingers and thinking of the feeling he'd gotten at the fence—it seems so long ago now, already.

It feels like an hour that he stands, staring at the calendar, before something comes to him.

_She didn't come._

She didn't come, and that's why he's waiting.

He leaves the dishes on the table, doesn't bother changing clothes, just pulls on his coat and boots before walking out the door. He walks to the fence, to the only other place he's felt that he can remember. The trek seems long, and it's all he can do to keep himself focused on it, to keep from giving up and going back to waiting, so he keeps mentally repeating, _she didn't come._

_She didn't come._

_She didn't come._

The fence is finally in sight, and he picks up his pace, running the last few meters. He touches the fence and things come rushing back: building the fence, tilling the soil, planting the fields, building the house for them to live in. He puts both hands on the top of the post. Planning everything, down to the last detail. Hoists himself up. Circling the date on the calendar. As he leans over, he can almost see her face, a blur of features all about to come together, ready to coalesce in his memory— 

He's standing at the edge of the field. He's waiting. His name is Ryo, and he's waiting for something. He stands at the edge of the field and his mind empties; he can feel the time passing as the world continues around him. He feels himself rooting into the ground, like he's stuck on a post. He feels his insides turn light. He feels his body stiffen, his features turning to a mask. He feels himself becoming a part of the field, the unstoppable movement of time binding him to this place. He feels that he's always been here, he's always been waiting. He's always been here, and he always will be. This is where he belongs; he was made for this place, for this purpose and nothing else.

Time passes, faster and faster. The seasons turn, and he waits.

 _I'm here,_ he thinks. _I'll be here._


End file.
